Fractal Images (2 of 2)
by Diana Battis
Summary: Sometimes you can't see the circles for the crops


# **Fractal Images (Part two of two)**

AUTHOR: Diana Battis   
CLASSIFICATION: MSR, S, A   
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: Yes. This is a post-all things piece.  
SUMMARY: Sometimes you can't see the circles for the crops.  
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it! Worse yet, I use dialogue from the episode in this story. Forgive me, Chris and Gillian. I swear no infringement is intended and no money is being made on my part.   
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: My heartfelt thanks to bugs for keeping me on track, and to Mish, Michelle, and Kristy for their suggestions and encouragement. The chocolate Mulders are in the mail.  
FEEDBACK: All4Mulder@aol.com  
  
Part two  
  
********  
  
In the end, it was Scully who made the first move.  
  
It seemed almost strange to be with her like that. He couldn't remember the last time they'd sat and just talked. Yet here they were, sitting shoulder to shoulder on his couch. Their feet were propped casually on the coffee table, almost touching as they bracketed half-empty mugs of tea. He'd never felt so relaxed.  
  
"I'm sorry things didn't work out for you, Mulder." Her words were thick with weariness. "Maybe sometimes nothing happens for a reason."  
  
He frowned. "That's the second time you said that. Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked.  
  
"You know, I've always admired your ability to cut straight to the heart of a matter, Mulder," she replied, her lips curving upward.  
  
"I'm serious, Scully."  
  
Her smile faded. "So am I," she answered softly.  
  
Mulder watched the expressions flash across her face, like slides projected on a screen. Fear. Anger. Pity. As if aware of his silent regard, her head tilted forward until her face was hidden by a cascade of hair.  
  
"I met someone this weekend," she said abruptly. "Someone I'd known a long time ago." Leaning forward, she grabbed her mug, sipping at the now-cold brew. "Someone who'd meant a lot to me, once upon a time." She laughed, but there was little humor in the sound. "Switched reports, Mulder. The Szczesny post mortem envelope held the wrong information. Instead of tox screen and tissue sample results it contained the x-rays of a Dr. Daniel Waterston."  
  
The way she said his name startled Mulder. He felt the first stirrings of jealousy and turned to gaze at his hands, now clenched tightly together in his lap. "I take it Dr. Waterston is the 'someone' in question?" It took all his available energy to keep his tone even.  
  
"He was one of my teachers in med school." Her voice was steady, though she seemed to struggle for the right words. "I was different then; naive and uncertain. Daniel saw something in me and he nurtured it. He was older, wiser, and I. . .I fell in love." She set the mug on the coffee table, glancing back at him as she straightened. "My friends didn't understand. They didn't see the charming and dynamic man I did. To them, he was just old."  
  
He turned to look at her then, his eyes curious. "That must have been hard for you to understand."  
  
"It was incomprehensible. How could they fail to recognize his genius?" Her glance darted in his direction. "And he *was* a genius, Mulder. He's still one of the best in his field. And he chose me," she whispered, her face now in shadows. "I told myself that they were just jealous."  
  
Her friends weren't the only ones. Hearing each word and seeing the hurt in her face was killing him. It was getting harder and harder not to touch her. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her like you would a child. To tell her everything would be all right. He wanted everything to be that way. But he knew she needed to talk, to get it all off her chest. And he needed to hear it. "I'm sorry," he said finally.  
  
Shrugging, she raised her eyes to his. "He'd told me he was divorced." She bit her lip, the teeth worrying the soft flesh. "The truth was, he lied to me. I trusted him and he lied. I should have suspected it. We never met on weekends, and when we did go out it was always to those little, out of the way places. I thought it was romantic," she finished, irony coloring her voice.  
  
He had to touch her then, he couldn't help himself. Slowly, he reached out to her, stroking a finger across the back of her hand. She shivered, but didn't pull away, and he was pleased by her reaction. "You were young, Scully. That's not a crime."  
  
"One day, I received an anonymous phone call. A 'friend' wanted me to know that my lover was still married." Her breath caught on the last word. "It hurt to discover my idol had feet of clay. But youth is nothing if not resilient. In a matter of days I'd convinced myself it was just a misunderstanding. He was only staying for the sake of his daughter. That worked for about two weeks, then reality set in. Needless to say, Daniel didn't take it well. He acted as if he were the one betrayed. He still feels that way."  
  
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to ask, "And you -- how did you feel, seeing him again?"  
  
"Truthfully, Mulder, I felt sad." She stared at her folded hands. "I'd managed to move on with my life, and he's still living in the past."  
  
Reaching out, he covered her hands with his. "Any regrets?" He held his breath, waiting for her answer.  
  
Her fingers twisted until they were entwined with his. She stared at him, her eyes huge in her pale face. "No regrets, Mulder. I'm right where I want to be."  
  
He exhaled heavily, releasing the weight that had been pressing on his heart with that simple expulsion of air. She'd answered so many questions, opened up to him in a way he'd never before imagined possible.   
  
When she finally shared her experience in the Buddhist temple, his jaw nearly dropped. She was direct and matter-of-fact and he realized that, for the first time, she believed in something her science couldn't explain.  
  
This whole night was amazing, almost like a miracle, if he believed in them. He couldn't seem to control the shit-eating grin that plastered itself to his face. He found himself babbling, his words almost nonsensical. ". . . .choices would then lead to this very moment. One wrong turn, and. . .we wouldn't be sitting here together. Well, that says a lot. That says a lot, a lot, a lot. That's probably more than we should be getting into at this late hour. . . ."  
  
The room was suddenly quiet. He looked over at her, surprised by the silence. Had he said something to upset her?   
  
She was asleep.  
  
Her face looked much younger in sleep. Lashes curled softly against her pale skin, and a lock of hair had fallen across her cheek. With an unsteady hand, he tucked it behind her ear, the strands like silk against his callused fingers. Reaching over, he grabbed the patterned blanket that was draped over the back of the couch. He wrapped it around her, careful not to disturb her, and crept off to bed.  
  
********  
  
There may be fifty ways to leave your lover, but there were only twenty-three positions for sleeping. Mulder knew that for a fact; he'd tried them all, counting each like sheep as he attempted to find the one that would finally do the trick. His current position was on his side, one leg uncovered -- position number seventeen. It wasn't working.  
  
Groaning, he rolled over on to his back. His jet lagged body yearned for sleep, but memories of Scully kept racing through his mind, faster than any sheep could jump a fence. Stretching his arms above his head, he closed his eyes defiantly. Position number eighteen and counting. . . .  
  
He was floating, his body light as air. It must be the bed. His comfortable bed. His big, fluffy pillows. Not like those cheesy English ones, filled with something prickly like hair. Horse hair from the tails.  
  
Horsetails, or maybe ponytails. Scully used to wear a ponytail. Long red hair. So pretty, like a silken waterfall, cascading down past her shoulders. Little freckles dotting her nose. And her smile. Beautiful, those full lips enticing even when they were pouting. Like a little rosebud, soft and round.  
  
Round and round. . .a serpent swallowing its own tail. Scullysnake, curving on her curves. Suddenly, she was there, tempting him. Sitting on the edge of his bed, pouting, fingers ruffling through his hair. "You left me on the couch," she scolded, but he heard the teasing note in her voice and smiled. "I was cold. Make me warm, Mulder." He pulled aside the covers in silent invitation.  
  
"Umm, that's nice," she murmured, sliding beneath the comforter. Skin, so soft, so much of it. Pressing against him. Head to foot. Feet. Her feet, frozen, like ice, and she rubbed them against his legs in seemingly blissful abandon.   
  
He shivered, but not from cold. "Careful, Scully," he whispered, "you're liable to start a fire that way."  
  
"I'll try to remember that," she said, laughing softly. Her voice, close to his ear, breath warm and sweet, fragrant like the mint tea. Seconds later, lips sliding against his. They lingered, lifted and pressed again. The kisses were gentle and sweet, more perfect than he'd ever before imagined. He heard her whispering to him, "I love you, Mulder." Her hands caressed his cheeks as she punctuated those words with another lengthy kiss.   
  
She said the words, the ones he'd wanted to hear for so long. It was like a dream come true, he thought hazily. A dream. . . .  
  
He was dreaming. It wasn't real. It couldn't be. Scully hadn't kissed him, hadn't said she loved him. She wasn't cuddled up next to him, wriggling until her body curved against his. It wasn't her silk-covered breast he cupped, or her nipple pebbling against his palm. He smiled, his face nestled against the curve of her neck. "Love you, too," he murmured, snaking an arm about her waist, "even if you aren't real."   
  
"Sleep, Mulder. Just sleep," she whispered soothingly.  
  
It was so vivid, so real. He could smell her scent, feel her soft skin, hear the even tenor of her breathing. It was a wonderful dream. . . .  
  
It was the cold that finally awakened him.   
  
The wind had picked up, causing the trees to sway in its wake. Branches tapped wildly against the partially opened window as though seeking shelter from the early morning chill. Shivering, he reached down to pull the covers to his chin.  
  
Snugly wrapped in the comforter, he found himself wondering if Scully were cold. He was suddenly worried that the blanket wasn't warm enough for her. The urge to check was overwhelming. He quickly threw off the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor.  
  
The wood was cold, and his toes curled in protest as he stepped carefully to the door. Opening it slowly, he peered into the next room.   
  
She was gone. The couch was empty, the blanket neatly refolded and deposited in its place over the back of the couch. Even the mugs were gone, probably sitting in the rack in his kitchen. There was nothing left to show that she'd been there; nothing to mark last night as a milestone in their relationship. With a sigh of disappointment, he closed the door and headed back to bed.  
  
He lay there for a while, snuggling in its warmth. It was almost morning. Turning his head, he could see the first hint of dawn, tinting the deep purple sky with traces of orange.  
  
Squinting, he checked the digital clock. Five-fifty three. In less than an hour he'd be getting up for work. Swearing softly, he squeezed his eyes shut and hoped for the best. . . .  
  
The covers twisted with every shift of his body until they were wrapped about his legs like ropes. The once cold room suddenly seemed like a furnace. Sweat slicked his bare chest and plastered the hair to his forehead. With a sigh, he gave up, propping his pillow against the headboard for support. Truth was, he was too wired to sleep. Last night had been amazing. Fantastic. Amazingly fantastic. And his dream. . . .  
  
He suddenly found himself grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  
  
Funny, but he could almost smell her. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. It seemed to him that his room, his bed, were suffused with scent. It was a blend of almond and citrus that was uniquely Scully. He turned to stare at the other pillow. The case seemed wrinkled, as though it had been used. . . .  
  
Memories of his dream, of how vivid it had seemed, washed over him. Was it possible? He bent over, sniffing at the cotton surface.  
  
The pillow smelled like Scully.  
  
Smiling, he rolled onto the other side of the bed and buried his head in its softness.  
  
********  
End  
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